


love hurt bleed

by tawamure



Category: Halloween Movies - All Media Types
Genre: Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Hate to Love, More tags to be added, Roughness, Slow Burn, just michael being michael, michael creepin, some fucked up shit considering our man of the hour, unhealthy relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-03
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-07-24 18:47:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16181015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tawamure/pseuds/tawamure
Summary: Through the thickness of the trees, she sees him. A shadow- a mere suggestion of a face, watching her.A shape.





	love hurt bleed

**Author's Note:**

> i have no idea what timeline this is in lmao, just imagine he fuckin escaped again or something,,,

Through the thickness of the trees, she sees him. A shadow- a mere suggestion of a face, watching her.

A shape.

" _Come out_. I'm not afraid of you."

Her voice wavers, a shaky tone, and she gulps as if trying to swallow her words back down. Oh, but her voice sounds so very _afraid_ , like a child desperately trying to sound grown up.

He's still, unmoving, so still that for a moment she thinks he's nothing but a trick of the light, just her imagination finding faces between the shadows of dying leaves.

A step forward. The ground crunches beneath his heavy footfall. A branch snaps.

She flinches then, her fight or flight response raging inside of her. For a minute, she almost flees- Michael can see it, the familiar look of panic he'd witnessed in all of his victims.

( _when they'd realised they were staring the boogeyman in the face._ )

She takes him in. Tall, lean body, broad shoulders. There's a cruel suggestion of strength in them, covered by the fabric of his dirty blue jumpsuit ( _stolen from some poor soul, undoubtedly,_ ) A stripe of moonlight paints itself across his mask. It reveals to her an eye, impossibly dark as it contemplates her.

The only noise is his muffled breathing beneath the mask, and the rapid thrum of her heartbeat in her chest, the noise of trick-or-treaters and Halloween festivities long lost to the wind. It feels like its only her and him now, together in her dark and lonely slice of Haddonfield.

He takes another step towards her, and it's then she sees the glint of the knife in his hand as he twirls it between his fingers.  
For a minute, she thinks this might be it. This might be where she meets her demise. He stops walking, and instead he looks at her as if waiting for something.

"They're looking for you, you know. It isn't a good idea for you to be wandering around like this."

She almost cringes at herself. What was she doing, giving advice to a serial killer? He tilts his head at her in an odd, owlish sort of way.

Silence.

Another short, shuffling step towards her. There's something off about his gait now- an awkwardness about him that may suggest an injury of some sort.

She raises her palms, speaking quickly.  
"Why don't you come inside? The police won't find you here,"

Its with desperation she feels the words leave her mouth. Paralysed, she stands, waiting for some kind of reaction, anything from the terror of a man in front of her.

_I don't want to die, I don't want to die._

And then, there in the dark, he gives a short, small nod- barely noticeable- but she sees it. A wave of relief washes over her, but she does not let her guard down, not completely.

Hell, all she knew was that she didn't want to die. She didn't want to die laying in a pool of her own blood, just another body count in Michael Myers Halloween rampage. ( _inviting him into her home, no matter if he didn't kill her, was a terrible, awful idea. every moment in his presence was digging herself an even deeper grave. she couldn't see a single good outcome from the situation_.)  
Thankfully, for whatever reason unfathomable to her, Myers didn't seem all too eager to kill her just yet.

She pushes the back door open, and he approaches, slow, shuffling.

She realises then, as he enters her home, that he's _tired_. She can tell by the huff of air he gives beneath the mask- the way he drags his feet against the ground. The big bad boogeyman that had everyone in Haddonfield on house arrest was tired- and for some reason it makes him seem to her a little less like an entirely unreachable monster and more like a person.

He stands, still in the kitchen doorway, watching as she busies herself. She offers him a damp disinfectant wipe, which he stares at blankly for a moment before finally deciding to accept. Slowly, he runs the thing across his palms, wiping a dark layer of grime and what she discerns with sick realisation as blood from his fingers. Then, almost methodically, he wipes his blade off, dragging the now filthy rag across the kitchen knife with utmost care.

She watches this with an almost queasy fascination from her seat at the kitchen counter. The whole thing is surreal- a morbid and macabre joke. If she weren't so stunned she'd probably laugh at the absurdness of it all. Well- maybe not. She isn't sure how he'd react to her laughing at him. In fact, he'd probably kill her for it, she decides.

When he's finished cleaning up, he looks to her, tilts his head slightly, and holds the filthy blood stained rag out to her.

She takes in a breath, stomach churning with disgust. Hesitantly she takes the thing from him between her thumb and forefinger, throwing it in the trash.

There's an uneasiness about her movement, he observes, a clear discomfort from his presence- yes, she's still afraid of him. _Good_. _He plans to keep things that way, if he can, for as long as he can._

"I... I can make a bed on the sofa for you." She offers, turning to him. Michael makes no reaction, still the same emotionless manner.

Then, he moves to the left slightly, and she realises that he's moving to grant her access through the doorway so she can show him inside. Well- she supposes that it's the most she'll get from him as far as communication goes. Wasn't much of a talker, she assumes.

She quickly brushes past him, her heart in her throat. She's half expecting his hand to dart out, grab her hair. She's waiting for the stabbing agony of a knife in her back- but none comes. He simply turns and follows her into the sitting room.

She's almost pleasantly surprised so far by his compliance. She darts into the hall, telling him she's going to fetch some blankets and pillows. When she returns, he's right where she left him, standing ominously by the side of the couch. She shakes out the sheet, spreads it over the settee, and plumps up the pillows.

"There," she murmurs, taking a step back.

He regards the couch for a moment, then with slow steps approaches and sits down.  
_There's a murderer sitting on your couch right now_ , she thinks. The thought is so absurd she isn't sure whether to laugh or cry.

Despite his obvious fearsome reputation, Haddonfield's boogeyman seems docile enough right now, sitting rigidly on the couch. His long legs are parted, arms resting on either side. She takes his strange submission as an invite to further tend to him. With the intentions of checking him for injuries, she decides to try and remove the added hazard of the blade.

"Let me take this-" She reaches out to take the stained kitchen knife from him, held loosely by his side.

She realises far too late what a horrible mistake she'd made.

His grip on the handle tightens instantaneously, and he snatches his hand back, raising the blade threateningly.

The sudden moment of hostility startles her, and she retracts her now trembling hand.

" _Sorry!_ " She gasps, voice an octave higher. She takes a few steps backwards, till she bumps clumsily into the bannister of the stairs, hands open in submission. He stands then, to his full height, knife still raised in the air.

She'd gotten too close for his liking, and he'd reacted accordingly. _What in the world was she thinking?_ she curses herself. It was far too personal of her to try and take the knife. Of course he'd never let that thing go- not with his attachment to it- and especially not for some strange girl who asks if she can _just have it._

"Sorry," She says again, breathlessly. Slowly, _slowly_ , the knife lowers. The tension in his form relaxes a fraction.

It's then she allows herself to breathe, willing herself to stop shaking so much. "I'll be..upstairs. If you need anything." She finishes lamely. He doesn't nod or even acknowledge her, simply fixing that eerie gaze on her once more.

She resigns, quickly making her way upstairs. She feels the burning of his eyes on the back of her neck, even long after she'd left his field of view.

_(she locks her room door that night.)_

**Author's Note:**

> not entirely sure where i’m going with this, but i hope it’s enjoyable enough. Let me know if you’d like any more :)


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